The Warden's Dogs

The Warden is the head of our res-college. Think RCD. He can be quite the stern man. Tall, but with quite the noticeable paunch, the Anglican priest and famous ethicist leads our formal dinners without mercy. Most nights, it’s a speech criticizing our lack of initiative or “only average” grades, or the broken glass outside the college bar (Really, what does he expect at a bar?). Until now, the only time I’d even spoken with him was when he demanded I tuck in my shirt. Then I found his dog.

On my way to the supermarket for another Tim-Tam Orgasm, I find SLU boy playing with a remarkably familiar dog. But I’m not surprised he found the dog, IDed it, and started playing with it. The boy is a cross between a Boy Scout and Steve Irwin, and I mean that in the best way.

Turns out I was right. The dog does in fact belong to the Warden. I knew I’d seen it before. Last time, it was hungrily lapping fungus out of a tree hollow. Now it was wandering into town. Plainly, this dog is smart.

Well, maybe it is. We lead it back to the college with no effort. It just follows us, like we’re a pair of pedophiles with candy, looking stupid and wanting to play. But we coax it home without incident.

The Warden is overjoyed to have his precious pet returned. He greets it with endearing yet awfully juxtaposed baby talk, then does the same to us. He then decides to tell us all about his dog, and show us multiple websites extolling the virtues (including intelligence) of Short Haired Spaniels. I’d be bored to tears if I wasn’t fascinated by his 180, but I listen politely out of fear of being invited to the High Table at next formal dinner.

Apparently, this isn’t his first short-haired. They’ve been in his family since he was an infant, and this makes 5. Most can companies only dream about such brand loyalty. But here’s the disturbing part. His previous pooch has a ridiculous life-size statue, plaque (“a gift from god…”) and shrine outside the cafeteria. I knew this already, and already commented on the insane narcissism of it. What I didn’t and wish I still didn’t know, is that the hound is interred under that bronze statue and shrine. In the middle of the footpath, right outside the cafeteria.

I wish he’d go back to yelling at me. That wasn’t scary.